


we were (born to make history)

by moonlitserenades



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, and possibly for future content, rating for Yuri's mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitserenades/pseuds/moonlitserenades
Summary: A collection of drabbles, which may or may not be interrelated. Notes will be included where applicable.Chapter 2:In the days leading up to the Grand Prix Final, Yura and Nikolai have an important conversation.





	1. Chapter 1

The first person he sees, after Lilia and Yakov and somehow, miraculously, even before Viktor and Katsudon, is Otabek. He’s standing right outside of the kiss and cry with his arms folded and face inscrutable. “Hey,” Otabek says, his lips quirking into the tiniest of smiles once Yuri emerges. 

“Congratulations,” he adds, in the same moment that Yuri says baldly, “You were robbed.”

Otabek inhales, sharp. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Yuri argues, staring hard into Otabek’s face. “It’s _not._ I was watching, and it’s bullshit.”

“His program had a much higher difficulty level than mine.” Otabek doesn’t shift, doesn’t look away, but something in him seems to tighten; to shrink, almost.

“His short program was a fucking wreck, and his free skate wasn’t much better,” Yuri says flatly.

Otabek’s jaw clenches. “Yuri,” he mutters. “Thank you, but it’s _alright._ ” (It’s not, it’s so clearly not, but Otabek is also clearly not going to tell him that he’s upset. Yuri swallows another outburst of JJ-related abuse with effort and tries to look apologetic.)

“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I thought you skated beautifully.”

“Says the youngest Grand Prix winner in history.” Otabek raises an eyebrow. “Careful, Yuri, my ego won’t be able to take all this inflation. I’ll end up commissioning a song with my name in the title for next year’s competition season.”

Yuri snickers, a knot of tension he hadn’t even noticed before relaxing at Otabek’s casual mention of the following year. “God forbid,” he says. “I’ll fucking disown you, don’t think I won’t.”

“Don’t play with my heart like this,” Otabek intones, monotone. Yuri laughs again, and Otabek gifts him with an equally rare grin. “In all seriousness, though, that you could make it look so easy even with all those extra flourishes...it was _art._ ”

“It was fucking murder,” Yuri corrects him. “I’m not sure I could have done it without all the extra adrenaline. Next time I’m having trouble with something, I’ll just get really pissed off at Katsudon. It won’t even take much effort.” 

“Well, of all times to pull it off, you picked the best one.” 

“Or maybe I’ll just think about JJ instead. Imagine the scores I’ll get _then._ ”

“No, don’t overdo it,” Otabek says quickly. “I don’t want to have to visit you in the hospital when you get too fired up and do a quad into the plexiglass.”

“YURIO!!!” Viktor bellows, destroying the moment in the most dramatic possible fashion by appearing out of nowhere, hurling himself at Yuri, and hugging him so exuberantly that he nearly lifts him off the ground. “Yuuri and I have been waiting for you! Come on--everyone wants to congratulate you!”

“I’m _busy,_ ” Yuri snaps, glaring at Viktor, who is, as always, completely unfazed by his rudeness.

“Viktor is right,” Otabek interjects. “You should get out there. I’ll talk to you after you get your medal.”

 _You’d better be on the podium with me next year,_ he thinks, but does not say. Even Yuri knows that saying something like that would cut, and no matter how he means it (wants it, maybe even needs it), he’s not willing to take the chance of wounding Otabek at a moment like this. “You’d better,” he says instead, and stops it there.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’ve had a busy day, Yurachka.” Grandpa’s voice is casual, but there is amusement in the pronounced lines around his eyes and mouth. 

Yuri blinks. Shrugs. Keeps his voice sardonic when he replies, “Well, it’s an important competition.”

Grandpa hums in agreement. “True, of course. But not what I meant.”

Yuri’s heart gives a little warning flutter. Were this anyone other than his grandfather, his favorite person in the entire world, he would have already been snapping, _then make your point, old man,_ but. Well, it _is_ his grandfather. So instead, he just tilts his head and says, “Huh?” like he doesn’t know that the damn hags that follow him around would have taken thousands of pictures of him riding on the back of Otabek’s motorcycle. And probably of the two of them sitting in that cozy little tea room, before all the rest of the skaters had mysteriously shown up to ruin it. Not that Yuri’s bitter about that. Not that he has any _reason_ to be bitter about it. 

“It’s good to see you making friends, Yura,” he replies, his eyes twinkling.

“He’s not my friend,” Yuri snarls before the words have even quite finished sinking in, and then feels weirdly disloyal for it. He bites hard at the inside of his lip to keep himself from taking it back.

“No?” His grandfather tilts his head. “Then let me be the first to offer my congratulations.”

“What?!” Yuri bellows, jolting so hard that he slams his kneecap against the underside of the desk. “Nonononononono it’s not--he’s not--we’re not--”

His grandfather doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing. “I see. Well, then let me say instead--if you were, it would be alright.”

Yuri’s breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. He realizes, suddenly, that his shoulders are curled up around his ears defensively. “With who?” he snaps. 

“With me. Not that my opinion would matter much; it _is_ your life, after all.” His eyes are soft now, and gentle. Yuri can see it even through the crappy quality of the Wi-Fi in their respective hotel rooms.

“But--” Yuri lets out a frustrated sigh. He wants, desperately, to say, _but I’m not like that_. Only he’s not sure he can. He clenches his teeth tight. “I barely even know Otabek,” is what he finally settles on. It doesn’t answer his grandfather’s unspoken question, nor does it express the gratitude unfolding slowly in his chest. But it's the best he can do.

His granddad shrugs, slowly. “Alright.”

He deflates, utterly flummoxed by the lack of reaction. “I thought you might--” He shakes his head, fear seizing the words straight out of his throat. If he says it, and it turns out that his grandfather was somehow talking about something else, he’s not sure he’ll survive it. But he just tilts his head again, ever so slightly.

“Thought I might?”

“Not--approve. If I was…” The word is choked off, and he swallows it away. “You know. I wasn’t sure if you would--understand.”

His grandfather shrugs again. “Such things have been around far longer than you have, Yurachka. _If_ it turns out to be true,” and the look he fixes him with is a little too understanding, “then I will still love you tomorrow just as much as I did today.”

Yuri knows, he _knows_ that he should reply to this. Russia has always been an intolerant country when it comes to such matters, and his grandfather has always been a fairly traditional man. But the lump in his throat is choking him, and all he manages is a watery, shaky half-smile.

“Well,” his grandfather adds, suddenly all business again. “It’s getting late, and rumor has it that you have an important competition tomorrow. Get some sleep, yes?”

He nods. And, just before the call disconnects, he manages to blurt a choked, “I love you, dedushka.”

“I love you, too.” And he hangs up.


End file.
